


Yesterday, Tomorrow and Today

by brittyelaine



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Castiel in the Bunker, Charlie Lives, Charlie Ships It, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Grumpy Dean, Holidays, Human Castiel, Kevin Lives, Kevin Ships It, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, SPN Holiday Mixtape, Sam Ships It, Season 9, Song fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 03:48:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8781751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brittyelaine/pseuds/brittyelaine
Summary: One night, Dean is visited by a mysterious figure, who drags him kicking and screaming down Memory (and Future) Lane.  After he sees what could be, Dean is forced to face the music about his feelings for a certain recently-fallen angel.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Based on "Yesterday, Tomorrow and Today" from _A Christmas Carol_
> 
> Come hang out with me on [Tumblr](http://brittywritesstuff.tumblr.com)!

Dean’s grumbling can be heard all throughout the cavernous bunker. He’s been at it all morning. Banging around. Grousing. In all honesty, he’s been at it for the better part of the last week. Most other members of the Winchester’s ragtag family have been strategically avoiding him for most of it. His raging aversion to holiday merriment was a little too much to deal with. “Goddamn it!” He groans loudly and tosses the mess of tangled string lights on the table and leans back, scrubbing his hands over his face. He only took them from Charlie to stop the pouty-puppy-dog face she makes when she wants something. He looks up to find Sam leaning in the archway, sipping a cup of coffee. “ _What_ , Sam?”

When Sam shrugs nonchalantly, Dean clenches a fist. “Nothing, just… You used to be all about this crap. Don’t you think you’re going a little overboard, Scrooge?”

“Meaning?” His tone is just a notch above a growl. He’s not in the mood for this. He’s not in the mood for a Sam Lecture. Or a Sam Talk. Or anything that involves Sam being condescendingly understanding. He just wants these fucking lights to cooperate. He just wants everything, for once, to cooperate. 

Sam ventures forward, settling on the edge of the table. He settles a hand on his knee, and Dean watches the steam rise from the mug. “I don’t know, you just seem on-edge lately. Jumpy. Pissier than usual. I don’t really have many fond holiday memories from childhood, but come on, Dean. Even I’m sort of enjoying it. Don’t you think you could lighten up a little?”

“No.” Dean stands, shoving the offending lights further down the table. 

Rolling his eyes, Dean heads for the hallway. A blur of red-headed energy appears, seemingly out of nowhere, all bouncing excitement and wide eyes. “Dean! Come help me look for some Christmas stuff in the store rooms. Please!”

Dean scoffs. “I don’t think the Men of Letters were exactly the Christmas-celebrating types, Charlie.”

She punches his arm lightly. “Won’t know if we don’t try! Come on!”

 

“Do you think we’ll ever get through their entire collection of everything?” Charlie muses aloud as she brushes away a thick layer of dust from a crate stacked on a creaky metal shelf. “I mean, it seems friggin’ endless. I wandered into a storage room the other day certain there had been a bathroom there. It’s like living in Professor Kirke’s house. You don’t have a wardrobe hiding somewhere, do you?”

Dean lifts a shoulder in response, not bothering to look back at her as he pries open a crate he’s dragged to the floor. “No. Wait. What? Who?” he says, tossing aside the lid. The crate, he finds, contains mummified body parts. Definitely not what Charlie’s looking for. He pulls a face and shoves it aside with his foot. 

He glances at Charlie as he pulls down another, and arches a brow when he notices she’s watching him. “What?” She’s looking at him the same way Sam does when he wants to talk about _feelings_.

She shrugs - that same nonchalant shrug. “What’s up with you lately?” It’s blunt and to the point, and he can’t fault her for that. 

“What do you mean?” He grimaces as he tries to pry off the lid of the crate. 

She’s thumbing through a box of books. “You’ve been on edge with everyone. Snapping at everyone. Especially Castiel. Which, come on, Dean. Don’t ya think he’s been through enough without you barking orders at him? I mean… you’ve never exactly been Dumbledore-chill, but you’ve been way more… I don’t know… _Umbridge_ lately. Frankly, it’s scary.” 

Sighing, Dean finally gets the lid free and tosses it aside. “Nothing. I’m fine.” He pulls out the books inside and laughs to himself. Looking up at Charlie, he holds up the books in his hand. “I think these are originals. You nerds should get a kick out of this.” 

Charlie looks up from the book in her hands and grins. “Awesomesauce! I’ll go through ‘em later.” Dean’s thankful she seems to have taken the hint and dropped the discussion of Dean’s feelings. It’s not something he wants to think about for himself, let alone discuss out loud. When she waves the book in her hand, it catches Dean’s attention. “Oh, _dude_ , this book is crazy. Check it out! They were doing experiments and working on incantations to bring fictional characters to life. Like…” She pauses, her eyes going unfocused for a moment. “Like a magical 3D printer or something.” 

“Yeah, ‘cause _that’s_ what we friggin’ need. More creatures courtesy of some asshats in lab coats playing God.” He gingerly flips through the pages of the first book on his stack. A Christmas Carol. “Hey, didn’t I see notes somewhere that Charles Dickens was a good friend of one of these dudes?”

Charlie flips her hair over her shoulder and nods. “Oh, yeah!” She snaps her fingers. “Albert Shaw, I think. We have his journal somewhere. He was part of the New York chapter. A lot of his notes and belongings got shipped here at some point ‘cause of his research. I think he said Charles always sent him copies of his works. Well. ‘Til Dickens died, obviously.” She sighs wistfully. “I wish I could’ve been friends with Charles Dickens. Or Charlotte Brontë. _A Tale of Two Cities, Great Expectations, Oliver Twist… Jane Eyre..._ None of them hold a candle to _The Hobbit_ or _Lord of the Rings_ , of course, but man. Oh! Oh my god! I wonder if any of the Men of Letters knew Tolkien!”

Dean isn’t listening. Not really. Instead, he’s settled on a crate of what he assumes to be more books. There are obviously no Christmas decorations in this storage room, so he’s given up his search. He’s done his part. She didn’t say they actually had to find any. He’s flipping through the books, definitely _not_ thinking about which delicate, beautiful original work he thinks he’d like to give Cas for Christmas, since everyone was insisting on his participation. When he finally drags himself out of his thoughts, he looks up to find Charlie muttering what sounds like an incantation from the dusty, nearly-comically oversized book she’s holding. “Charlie,” he snaps, “what have we told you about reading spells out loud? You could hurt someone!”

Startled, Charlie snaps the book shut. “Oh, blurg. Sorry.” She looks around, wide-eyed. “Hey, nothing happened! It’s all good, right? We’re fine. It’s fine. It’s all good. Hey, let’s go find some decorations, huh?” She stuffs the book back on the shelf, and Dean says nothing of it teetering precariously on the edge. 

Dean is muttering to himself about _safety_ and _no one listens to me_ as Charlie skips off down the hall. Probably to carry on her search. He doesn’t really care. He stops short of slamming directly into Cas. “Oh, shit. Sorry. Hey.” He clears his throat. “Hey, Cas.”

Cas sidesteps him and ducks his head. “Hello, Dean.” He’s wearing Dean’s clothes, Dean realizes - a faded t-shirt that used to be black, and used to say ‘Led Zepplin’ and jeans that fit more snug around his hips and thighs than they did on Dean. Dean definitely does not think about how good they look. He does make a note that he could grab Cas some new clothes. He doesn’t mind seeing Cas in his clothes, but it might be nice for Cas to have his own. Not Jimmy’s. Not Dean’s. Just Cas’s. “Is everything alright?”

“What?” Dean snaps his eyes up to Cas’s and nods. “Fine. Just, yeah.” He claps Cas on the shoulder and brushes past him, sighing to himself. 

“Dean.”

Dean stops and turns, finally looking at Cas’s face. He looks sad, and it breaks Dean’s heart. “What’s up, Cas?”

Cas takes a step toward him, and Dean takes a second to let his eyes sweep over him. “Have I done something to upset you?”

“What? What… No. No, why would you think that?”

With a heavy sigh, Cas runs a hand through his hair, making it even more unruly than usual. “You’ve been… unpleasant.” Cas squints, as if to emphasize his point. “More so than usual.” It’s matter-of-fact and makes Dean flinch. “It seems as if you’re unhappy with me. Charlie, Kevin, and Sam, too, but… Do you want me to be here? Would you like for me to leave?”

Dean surges forward, grabbing hold of Cas’s arms. He tries not to think of how nice their solid warmth feels beneath his hands. “You’re not going anywhere, Cas. You’re family, okay? Your place is here. With us.”

“Then why,” Cas looks down at Dean’s hands on his arms before raising his head to meet Dean’s eyes. “Why have you been so angry with everyone? With me?”

Finally releasing his grip, Dean steps back, running a hand over his face. “I don’t know. Haven’t been feeling much like myself lately. You haven’t done anything wrong, Cas. You’re awesome. It’s awesome to have you here. Really. I’m just in a funk. I’m sorry if you… What?”

Cas is watching him with a smile, his head tilted. “You have a good heart, Dean. Everyone in this bunker loves you. And, it would seem, you love them. My time as a human has been short, but I’ve watched humanity a long time. My understanding of the holidays is that… they’re meant for enjoying one another. Enjoying your family.” He steps forward to grip Dean’s shoulder. “It seems that perhaps you’re caught up with something elsewhere in your mind. But maybe if you try being here. With us. And enjoying our company,” he adds with an awkward wink, “the sooner everyone will stop avoiding you.” 

+

The shelf, long abandoned by Dean and Charlie’s fruitless search, shakes and rattles against the concrete. A soft blue light spreads across the room, emanating from the book Charlie had haphazardly tossed on the shelf. It descends to the ground with a heavy thunk and falls open, the pages flipped by an inexplicable wind. “Tonight,” a disembodied voice whispers, “you shall see.”

+

By the time Dean crawls into bed, the rest of the bunker was silent. Cas had retired to his room first, followed by Sam, Charlie, and finally Kevin. Charlie had passed out face-down on her laptop but grudgingly moved her snoring to her own room after Kevin poked and prodded her. 

With a deep sigh, Dean settles under the covers and reaches behind him to punch his pillow into a vaguely comfortable shape. He crosses his arms over his chest and stares up at the ceiling. The clock’s angry red glow falls on his face as he turns his head to look at the empty bed that stretches out beside him. He wonders quietly if he’ll ever have the balls to fill that side of his bed; to fill the empty space in his heart. He definitely does _not_ fall asleep thinking about Cas and the way he’d filled out those clothes. 

He’s awoken by the sound of breathing beside him. On instinct, he reaches for the gun beneath his pillow. “Who’s there?” he demands, squinting in the darkness. His heart is beating in his throat as a shrouded figure steps forward and reaches out. Dean doesn’t even have time to fire off a round before a bony hand closes around his arm and the quiet solace of his bedroom disappears. He finds himself standing in a snow bank outside a motel room window. “What the fuck?” He turns to the hooded figure. “Who are you?”

“Look and see,” the figure tells him, pointing through the window. “Tonight you will see, Dean Winchester.”

Dean squints through the window, and he feels like he’s going to throw up. The bitter bile rises in his throat, and he swallows hard to keep it down. He’s staring at himself. He can’t be more than, what, sixteen or seventeen, and fuck. Sam has fallen asleep on the couch, _Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer_ is playing low on the crappy TV in the corner. Dean watches as he hangs up the phone and runs a hand over his face. He remembers this night. Dad was supposed to have been back from his hunt, and Dean was meant to spend Christmas with his girlfriend-of-the-month, but she called him at the last minute to cancel. Of course, in true John Winchester fashion, he never showed. 

“What am I supposed to see?” he demands. He can see his breath in the air, but he doesn’t feel cold. He’s standing in a snowbank in sweatpants and no shoes, but he doesn’t feel a thing. Except anger. “What the fuck is any of this,” he waves his hands, “going to accomplish? You showing me the Greatest hits of Dean’s Shitty Life? Well, newsflash, buddy, I’ve already seen it. I lived it!”

The figure remains silent as the scene shifts, and Dean finds himself sitting in a plush armchair in the corner of a well-decorated, if sparse, living room. A small tree stands in the corner opposite the chair he’s occupying. It’s strung with multi-colored lights – the obnoxious kind that flash every so often, and shiny red globe ornaments are peppered throughout. A twinkling star sits on top, drooping a little to the left. It takes him a second, but recognition washes over him. The sound of footsteps fall against the oak floor in the hall, and when she rounds the corner, Dean takes in a breath. “Cassie,” he breathes. He watches himself follow a moment later, his mouth set in an angry line.

Cassie whirls around suddenly, taking Dean by surprise. Her dark curls fly into her face, and she pushes them away. From his prime seating beside the proverbial ring, Dean can see she’s been crying – though he remembered this night vividly. He didn’t need priority seating to know Cassie was crying. “I need you to leave, Dean. I can’t… I can’t do this anymore.”

“Cassie… Come on, don’t do this.” When Dean takes a step toward her, Cassie recoils in disgust.

“Don’t touch me. You really expect me to pretend everything’s fine? That everything’s normal after what you just told me? You’re insane.” 

Dean watches his younger self scrub his hands over his face. “Cassie, it’s _Christmas_. Let’s not do this tonight. Let’s just—“

“I said leave.” Cassie crosses her arms over her chest in defiance, but her eyes remain fixed on the floor. “Please, just leave, Dean.”

As the younger one retreats, Dean stands, making his way toward the figure, occupying the space between the windows. “I’m done with this bullshit. I get it, okay? Whatever lesson you’re trying to teach me, I get it. My Christmases have always sucked. Can we get to the point?” 

A fast-forward that reminds him of a VHS tape allows him glimpses of his Christmases through the years. The year Sam left for Stanford. The year Dean went to hell. The year he lived with Lisa and Ben. Finally, he stumbles, finding himself in the bunker’s kitchen. Kevin, Charlie, and Sam sit around the table, each nursing a beer. Dean and Cas, he notes, are nowhere to be seen. They all look grim, and he doesn’t find himself needing to wonder why for long.

“I heard him screaming at the washing machine earlier,” Kevin notes, lifting the beer to his lips. “I mean… he’s never been happy-go-lucky, but _damn_ , dude.”

Sam snorts, but says nothing.

Charlie nods in agreement. “Castiel bumped into him in the library this morning, and when Dean dropped the books in his hand, he launched an expletive-laden tirade about being human now and getting his head out of his ass.” She sighs heavily and knocks back the last of her beer. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Castiel look so upset. Guys, I think I saw _tears._ ” 

Sam drags his finger down the neck of the bottle, tracing the perspiration down the amber glass. “He’s in love with him,” he mumbles, not looking up.

Kevin and Charlie stop. “What?” the ask in unison. 

Sam says nothing. Instead, he takes a long drag of his beer and sets it on the table with a clink. “I said,” he began, his voice only a modicum louder than before, “he’s in love with him.”

“Who’s in love with what now?” Charlie asks, bewildered.

“Dean. He’s in love with Cas. And he’s too much of a bull-headed douche to admit it. I’ve been dealing with this crap for years. But, now that Cas is human and living here with us, Dean’s _actually_ had to face it. And we all know how Dean is with feelings.”

Dean, from his place in the corner, wants to shout. He wants to scream. He wants to reach through whatever dream bullshit this is and shake Sam. Tell him he’s wrong. Tell him that he’s never been more wrong about anything. But he can’t. He can’t move. He can’t say a word. He’s frozen. Not from fear, he realizes. He’s paralyzed by the truth. 

 

“Daddy! Papa! Wake up, wake up, Santa was here!” 

Dean watches, his mouth agape, as a little girl bounds through the door, her blonde curls bouncing as she takes a running leap toward the bed. His eyes widen when he watches himself sit up and run a hand through his hair while beside him, Cas does the same.

“Santa came? Really? I didn’t think you were that good this year,” Dean says, his smirk giving away the playful intent of his comment. 

The little girl giggles. “Yes I _was_ , Daddy!” She squeals with delight when Cas reaches over to tickle her sides. “No, Papa, that tickles!” 

Rolling his eyes, Dean pokes the girl’s belly. He pulls her close and kisses her head, lingering for a moment as he breathes he r in. “Alright, alright. We’re up. You go downstairs and pick out the first one you want to open and we’ll be down in a minute, okay?” The girl can’t leap from the bed faster. “Gracie!” Dean calls, and she pauses in the doorway. “No peeking. I mean it, ma’am.”

When she’s gone, Dean looks to Cas and sighs. “Mornin’.” He leans over and kisses the angel, grinning against his lips. “I’ll give you your present later,” he murmurs. “But we should probably go chaperone her before she destroys the living room.” 

Cas lifts his hand to Dean’s face, and he can see the glint of a wedding ring in the morning light streaming in through the window. They look happy. Content. Everything they’ve never been. And Dean, the real Dean, inhales sharply, taking a step back. “What the hell is this? This isn’t real. Me and Cas we’re not… This isn’t…” Even as the words of denial leave his mouth, that ugly feeling of jealousy and desire are bubbling in his gut. He’d never looked so happy and content with Lisa. He’d never looked so happy and content with _anyone._

 

The sound of giggles fades away with the scene, and Dean finds himself in a bar. A waitress brushes past and sets a beer on the table in front of him, and Dean suddenly feels sick to his stomach. The table is occupied by Dean himself. He’s older – late fifties, he guesses – and looks miserable. As a Christmas jingle rings through the crowded room, the waitress clears away three empties, and Real Dean takes a step closer to examine his elder doppelgänger. “The hell happened to him?” He asks. “To me?” There’s no ring on his finger. He’s alone. His eyes look empty; he looks beleaguered and broken Dean looks around for any sign of Sam or Cas, but finds none. 

“What might be,” the figure says. The voice stirs up a new wave of nausea for Dean. “If you cannot learn from tonight, this will be your future. No love, no joy, _no one_. Make your choice, Dean Winchester. Will you live a life of happiness, or will this be your future?” Dean stumbles when he finds himself back in his room. He falls backward on the bed, bracing himself on his hands. “When you awake, your path will be set. Choose wisely.” 

+

Dean wakes gasping for air. He kicks the covers off, his t-shirt sticking to his tacky, sweaty skin. He looks around frantically, searching for any sign of that bone-chilling creature who’d spent the better part of his night dragging Dean’s ass down not-so-pleasant memory lane. Despite his travels, he feels well-rested. He feels energized. A quick glance at his clock tells him it’s just past six in the morning – longer than he’s slept in in years. 

Scrubbing his hands over his face, he shuffles out of bed and eyes himself in the mirror. “C’mon. Get your shit together,” he mutters. He splashes water on his face and exhales slowly. After a quick teeth-brushing, he sheds his t-shirt and grabs a fresh one before heading down the hall. He hesitates at Cas’s room, pausing to press his forehead to the door before knocking. 

When Cas opens the door a moment later, his hair is ruffled, but he looks awake – bright-eyed and alert. “Dean.” It’s not a question or a statement. For a moment, the word hangs in the air between them, uncertain and tentative. 

“Mornin’, Cas.” Dean clears his throat and runs a hand through his hair. “D’you… Can I…” Words fail him, so he gestures toward the room, hoping Cas will get the idea. Thankfully, he does, and steps back silently to allow Dean inside. “Did I wake you?”

Cas shakes his head as he closes the door. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. No, nothin’s wrong, Cas, I just… I…” He closes his eyes for a moment, and visions of that beautifully warm Christmas morning with Cas and their daughter wash over him. _I can have that,_ he tells himself, _all I have to do is say so._ “I wanted…” he begins slowly, finally forcing himself to look up at Cas. “I wanted to apologize. I don’t…” He cuts himself off and looks down at his feet, dragging in a ragged breath. 

“Dean, what is it?”

“I don’t do feelings, Cas.” When he finally looks up, he meets Cas’s eyes, and he feels like the wind’s been knocked out of him. “But when I’m with you, I… I feel so much shit I can’t think straight.” He laughs at himself then, silently admitting the irony in his words. “When I look at you,” he takes a tentative step toward Cas, who looks adorably bewildered, “I can’t think of anything but what it would be like to kiss you. I can’t think of anything but what it feels like to hug you… how I want to keep my arms around you. To hold you. I can’t think of anything, Cas,” he finds himself inches from Cas now, and he draws a breath, riding this wave of newfound confidence, “except how goddamn much I love you.” 

When Cas takes a shuddering breath, Dean leans in, pressing their foreheads together. He cups Cas’s face, his thumbs smoothing over his cheeks. His heart leaps when Cas’s hands settle on Dean’s waist. “Can I kiss you?” he whispers. He grins when Cas nods, and he doesn’t hesitate – he presses his lips to Cas’s. It’s slow and gentle. It’s everything he’s ever imagined it to be. It’s everything he _wanted_ it to be, especially after watching it happen before his eyes. In short, it’s _everything_. Merry Christmas, Dean Winchester. 

“Dean.” Cas pulls back to look at him, and Dean slips his fingers through that mess of dark hair. It is, he finds, just as soft as he’d imagined it to be. “As happy as I am at this… turn of events… I find I’m confused by where all of this is coming from.”

“I had a come-to-Jesus moment last night.”  
Cas’s brow creases in confusion. “I wasn’t aware that Jesus—“

“It’s just a saying, Cas. I don’t mean. It means… I came to a realization. Had a weird night. I’ve spent a lotta years trying to distance myself from my shitty past. From all my shitty Christmases. From… from my feelings. And I figured out that if I don’t get my shit together… If I don’t stop taking it out on you… I’m gonna end up alone. And I don’t want that. I don’t want to be sad and old, sittin’ at a bar all by myself on Christmas ‘cause I couldn’t get my head outta my ass.” He shifts, licking his lips. He steps out of Cas’s grip, pacing the room. “This… I don’t know… person? Creature? Whatever it was… It took me from my bed and dragged me through this sad clip show of my life. All the shitty Christmases I’ve had. But…” 

He hesitates, running a hand over his mouth. “He also showed me what my future could be.” He moves toward Cas again, gripping his face. “With you. Cas, it showed me what we could have. I saw us. Together. _Married_.” Fuck, he’s crying now. He doesn’t even try to deflect. “And, god, Cas. We had a daughter. This beautiful little girl. And she was ours. And we were safe. And happy.” He kisses Cas and exhales slowly. “But he also showed me,” he drops his forehead to Cas’s, “what my future would look like if I ignored this. Us. And I don’t want that. I want a Christmas morning with you and our future kid, whoever she is. I want _you_. That’s all I want my future to be. You.” 

Cas’s arms encircle him, pulling him flush, and Dean feels himself melt into it. He’s spent so long fighting this, and now he can’t even see why. “I want this, too, Dean,” he hears Cas whisper, and he’s certain his jaw will be sore from his ear-to-ear smile. 

Suddenly, Dean pulls away. “Let me make this up to you, Cas. All of it. I’ve been so shitty to you—“

“To everyone, actually.”

“I know,” Dean huffs. “I want to make it right. I want to make it up to you. To everyone. I want… Just…” He kisses Cas’s cheek and turns abruptly to bolt from the room. 

 

The Impala swings into a parking spot at the far end of the lot of the brand-spanking-new Wal Mart in Smith Center a little less than an hour later. He’s clearly not the only one doing last-minute shopping, but armed with a newfound light in his life and a credit card with an obscene limit, he’s on a mission and nothing’s going to deter him. He even flashes a smile at a passing couple and wishes the crappy Mall Santa a Merry Christmas as he tosses a few bucks into the Salvation Army bucket before passing through the sliding doors. “Alright,” he says to a grand audience of no one, rubbing his hands together, “let’s do this.”

 

When he drags in a nine-foot pre-lit artificial pine and two trips-back-to-the-car worth of bags three hours later and dumps them on the library table, he’s met with stunned silence and dropped jaws from everyone as they sit clutching their coffee, seemingly petrified. 

“Dean,” Sam begins tentatively. He’s the safest bet to approach Dean in a manic state, they all seem to decide. “What the hell is all of this?”

“A change of heart. Merry Christmas, Sammy! C’mon. Help me with this tree.” He glances at Cas and winks, which does not go unnoticed by Sam, Kevin, or Charlie – the latter of whom was barely containing her excitement.

“Dean, seriously. What the hell is going on?” Sam has _that_ face, and Dean rolls his eyes at it.

“Dean met with Jesus last night,” Cas offers.

“No – that – Cas, I told you, that’s not what that means.”

“Yes, I recall. Well, you did say you were visited by a creature who showed you your past and future Christmases.”

Dean ignores Cas’s explanation. “Look, Sam, I… I don’t know. I had some kinda epiphany, and I figured, y’know, it was time to just let go, and…”

“Oh my god!” Charlie’s shout startles them all. “The book. Holy Batman, Robin, you’re Scrooge!”

“’Scuse me?”

“The-the-the book we found yesterday. Remember? I was reading that incantation and you—you were holding ‘A Christmas Carol’ and I brought to life the Ghost of Christmas Past, oh my god, Cas, you’re Tiny Tim! God bless us everyone!” She can barely contain her laughter.

Sam looks to Dean, raising his eyebrows. “Wait, is that true?” he asks, incredulous.

Sighing, Dean runs a hand through his hair before poking at the ornaments overflowing from the white plastic bag in front of him. “Yeah, I mean… Yeah. Okay,” he’s exasperated and sick of talking about it. “Yes. Some weird creature showed up and dragged me outta bed and showed me some shitty Christmases and gave me a sneak-peek at the future or whatever. So, yeah, sure, I’m Scrooge. Whatever, can we just get on with this or not?”

Sam doesn’t relent. Typical. “So… you and Cas are…”

“Yes, Sam,” Dean snaps. “Yes. Okay? We’re… we _are_.” They all turn to Cas, who’s grinning, and that’s confirmation enough.

“Okay, then. Let’s Christmas the shit outta this place!” Kevin chimes in.

+

The bunker is quiet, long after everyone’s gone to bed. The only sounds that can be heard are the clunky old air system and groan of the ancient pipes. Dean finishes off his whiskey and sets the glass in the sink to be taken care of tomorrow. On the way to his room, he ducks into the library and finds Cas standing beside the table, staring up at the tree, twinkling in the darkness of the vast room. 

Dean approaches him slowly, slipping his hands around his waist to pull Cas back against his chest. Settling his chin on Cas’s shoulder, it occurs to him that while this should feel strange and foreign and unsure… he’s never felt more comfortable. He’s never felt happier. 

“It’s a beautiful tradition,” Cas says softly, laying his hand over Dean’s, clasped over his stomach. “The tree, the lights, the gifts – all of it.”

“It is,” Dean agrees. “It’s your first Christmas as a human, so what do you want? Everyone has a wish list. Everyone has somethin’ they wish for Christmas morning.”

Cas turns, then, reaching up to cup Dean’s jaw. “I don’t need anything else. I already have my wish.” He leans in, kissing Dean softly. When he pulls away, he’s smiling. “I have you.”


End file.
